


Mistral Noir

by Entomancy



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Mobscast AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entomancy/pseuds/Entomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Mobscast' AU - 1920s/Gangster-esque setting. Because who doesn't need PI!Rythian, car chases and an upended bucket of mob tropes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistral Noir

How the hell did he get roped into these things?

The jalopy's wheels screamed at the road, rims skimming sparks from the unfortunate curb as they took the corner impossibly fast, tilting precariously until the tires clamped back down onto tortured tarmac and they shot forward again. Gunfire rattled out behind them, and Rythian nearly bit through his tongue as half his vision was suddenly full of nyloned leg; Zoey swiveled upright in the passenger chair, gripping the seat-back with her knees, and added her own answering retorts to the chaos.

“Yeah! Take that!”

“ You can't – possibly  _ hit  _ anything – like that!” he yelled, his fingers white-knuckle tight against the steering wheel as he wrenched again, shoulders screaming, and the stolen car veered down another side-street. If he kept off the main roads, there was a chance -

Fragments of brick and reddened dust showered down as another round of furious lead tore into the wall above them, and Zoey finally dropped back down, clutching her borrowed fedora to her bobbed hair, and grinning like a maniac.

“Oh, I'm firing blanks - ” she waved the pistol, spinning it around one scarlet-nailed finger like some old-western gunslinger. “I don't want to kill anyone, right?”

“ For the love'a - ” Rythian took the next corner so close he left paintwork on the wall, exploding through an unlucky stack of garbage in a rain of old cabbage, and caught a glimpse of the pursuing vehicles. He had the horrible suspicion that the only reason they weren't  _ gaining _ on his frantic attempts to remember how drive was that each rival car was taking the opportunity to take potshots at the other when they got close. “I wish your friends'd share the attitude!”

_Think, Rythian._ Mistral 's streets might not have been kind, but they were certainly familiar, and there had to be a way to ditch this chase that didn't end with him in the river.

Maybe...

“You said head for the docks?” He risked a glance at his passenger – seeing how the beaded shawl had slipped from her bare, freckle-tossed shoulders – then swung his attention very firmly back to the road, trying to ignore how his breath hitched in his throat as she nodded.

In the few short days since she'd swung into his life, he'd been chased, shot at, coshed (twice); lost his office, his hat and nearly an ear. He'd known the dame was trouble – they all were, but this one really took the cake. Now he was hurtling at breakneck speed in a stolen car, down alleyways barely wide enough to swing his ruined career, while there was a possibly-unconscious mob-boss in the trunk, and he had the personal attention of the two biggest gangs in this whole rotten town right at his heels.

All because of her. 'Trouble' in  _ no way  _ went far enough.

And – god save whatever boiled-down soul he had left – if he didn't feel more alive right now than he had for years.

“Right. I guess we take a shortcut.” He slammed his foot down even harder on the gas, trying to coax a bit more speed out of the already-howling engine, and the car screeched sideways, skidding on its spinning tires as it dived drunkenly down the next street. This one sloped downwards steeply – it was straighter than he'd like, lining them up too closely with even the erratic shooting from behind – but the road itself ran out abruptly at the bottom of the hill, spilling out after a few rough rows of sheds into the sprawling mess of the downtown rail yard.

The chain-link fence was strung through with vicious barbed wire and crude warning signs, but Rythian knew well enough that the main bulk of the security around track-works in this town pivoted on fear of upsetting the Rail-Brothers themselves; undisputed kings of freight and haulage, and entirely willing to add a couple of hundred pounds of extra crumpled balast to the next outgoing shipment, at any time. Well, he could burn that bridge when he came to it – he had much bigger problems right now, and  _ they _ were catching him up on the straight.

The fence burst open on impact, taking out the rest of the windshield; Rythian ducked down between his own arms and Zoey gave a little whoop of nervous excitement, crouching half-into the footwell as glass flew past overhead. They plunged forward again, the rattle of tracks turning the car into their own personal earthquake, as Rythian wove through sparse rows of parked-up freight cars, aiming for what was without doubt one of the stupidest damn decisions of his life.

“Rythian - ” Zoey started, cut off with a yelp as more bullets bounced off the carriage beside them, showering her with sparks. He ignored her, trying to keep his gaze focused on the little point of light ahead, as he swerved, and cursed through gritted teeth. Headlights swarmed across them, accusatory-brilliant in the falling evening, and the other cars were so close now he could hear snatches of the yelling over engine roars.

“ _ Rythian! _ ”

The car shot up the concrete-scree bank, clipped the top of the shaking, singing main rails, and arced in adrenaline-slow motion over the other side – as the first cart of the massive freight train thundered past, inches from their rear bumper, with a deafening roar of wheels, rattling cargo and furious horn. There was brake-screeching and curses somewhere behind the juggernaut-wall, but he ignored that too. The jalopy's wheels skidded on railside debris, then a few moments later the battered vehicle burst out of the yard again and plunged into the relative peace of the lamplit roads. They had a minute, maybe less, but any head start was better than none.

A few random, wild turns later and Rythian slammed them to a halt at the end of an alley, tore out the keys and grabbed an unresisting-Zoey, flinging them both down between the bullet-pocked back seats as their one remaining headlight died, and tried not to  _ breathe  _ loudly. The city was never quiet at night, with a general background thrum of cheap lives and expensive crime, but he could make out the nearby twin growls of temporarily-paired pursuit, somewhere beyond the alley walls.

Were they getting closer, or had his lunatic gamble paid off?

Fate had no soft spot for him – that was the raw truth – but if they didn't get out of this by his luck, they might manage by on her's. Hells knew, she had enough of it, if the last few crazy days had been anything to go by. Ears straining, he tried to make out anything above the rising evening squall, but there was nothing. They'd lost them.

He looked down and the sudden realisation of a very different proximity hit like an icepick. Zoey was staring up at him with a curious expression on her face, and he was abruptly, acutely aware of the smooth skin under his hands; her glitzy dress was even more disarrayed from the dive, but that only served to remind him of what it still – mostly – overlaid.

“ That... was pretty awesome, actually,” she muttered, and he froze as her hand came up, resting gently on his forearm as she shifted, ever so slightly, underneath him. The moment held, curling up against itself in a blur of  _ complicated _ –  then Rythian jerked back, cracking the top of his head against the folded roof, and managed to extricate himself hurriedly from the car with as much dignity as he could manage. The alley was narrow, reeking of fossilising garbage, but he took a deep breath of the fetid air anyway. Last night's whisky still clung to the back of his tongue, tasting of old nails and older regrets, and he grimaced at the combination.

_ God _ _** damn ** _ _ . _

“Rythian?”

He pulled together the rags of his composure and turned back. Zoey was leaning over the side of the car, watching him in puzzlement as he managed to get the dented driver's door open again after a few tries, and slid back inside. He cleared his throat.

Christ. He was never meant to be a sober man.

“...thanks. I think we lost them,” he said, focusing his attention on coaxing the tormented engine into less-frantic life as she folded herself back into the seat beside him. “Docks?”

“Yeah.” She fished around in the footwell, grinned, and jammed the purloined hat back into place. Then she glanced towards the back of the car, a small frown nipping at her features. “Sure hope we didn't scramble him too badly.”

Rythian snorted as he began to back the battered vehicle out of their pungent shelter.

“ If even half the stuff I've heard about this guy's true, that's  _ way _ down the list of our worries.”

The rest of the journey was bizarrely uneventful. Rythian still took the most roundabout route he could think of, but eventually the huge, blocky shapes of the cargo warehouses loomed out of the night, badly lit by yellow lights that served more to pool shadows than illuminate much. Zoey gave directions, and eventually the car rolled to a halt in a cloud of deflating tires and leaking oil, outside a small warehouse to the west of the main district. There was some kind of logo onto the wide wooden door – old, and peeling in the way of cheap paint on damp wood – and Rythian squinted at it as Zoey got out and sashayed her way over to the narrow side door. Some kind of... spotted umbrella, maybe?

After a moment, she gave him a thumbs-up and a grin that caused an unwelcome flutter somewhere around his stomach, and he swallowed, trying to ignore  _ himself _ as the door rolled open and he persuaded the car to limp inside. Zoey followed him in, and he nearly had a heart attack as she let out a high-pitched exclamation – but then she darted past and caught onto the arm of a stocky figure that loomed out of the shadows at the edge of the room.

“ Tee! Oh, wow, you should have  _ seen _ it!  _ Zoom _ , right in front of a train – it was amazing.”

If possible, the big man managed to look even more idly-looming than the last time Rythian had seen him. His thick-brimmed hat was still pulled down to cover most of his face, but Rythian could practically feel the faint disapproval in the hidden gaze, as he climbed out of the wrecked car again and made his cautious way over. He was in time to hear a faint, rumbling growl, the most sound he'd heard Zoey's pet thug make so far, as she muttered something else and patted his arm.  There was a tension in her stance now, suddenly, and Rythian opened his mouth to speak - but the next voice that happened wasn’t his own.

“D’you know, I wonder, what happened to the last guy to get me in handcuffs?”

The swivel was textbook, the automatic draw of his revolver muscle-smooth, and half a heartbeat later Rythian’s brain actually had time to catch up with events. He sighted down his own arm at the figure lounging easily back against the bullet-pocked bonnet of the cooling car.  He had seen the Mystral's canid-alias kingpin before tonight, but only as a shadow in the background or – in older memories, dusty and painful in their neglect – a dapper-cut shape, moving through the crowds of grinning, empty faces with his own personal social gravity.

If he had expected that several hours locked in a trunk would have wrong-footed the man, Rythian would have been be disappointed. Ridge leaned back against the car, his ankles lazily crossed, his waistcoat open a few buttons in a way that managed to be more stylishly louche than actually disheveled.  Other than a couple of faint, suspiciously-round tears in the fine fabric of his shirt, not even one curl of dark hair was out of place.  He was gently spinning the removed cuffs on one finger, where they glinted repeatedly in the dull warehouse light, and was grinning his particular, overly-widened smile.

“ Technically, it wasn’t me that got the drop on you,” Rythian muttered, wincing slightly at his own phrasing, as he glanced towards the sprung boot of the car.  How fast could this guy  _ move? _

As if  _ that  _ was the biggest worry.

Ridge chuckled.  It was a quiet sound, but there were undertones of steel, and Rythian redoubled his grip on his gun.

“True.  So, we’re both busy men - how about I tell you why I brought you here?”

Rythian blinked.

“ Why  _ you _ -?” he stopped as, just behind him, there was a soft metallic click, and something cold pressed gently into the back of his head.

_...ah.  I’m still an idiot, I see. _

“No blanks this time?” he asked quietly, as he desperately tried to stop his shoulders slumping down into the black, hollow pit that had opened up where his stomach used to be.

“No.” Zoey’s voice was tight, struck through with strain he couldn’t quite identify through the sudden ringing of humiliation in his ears. “I - I’m sorry, Rythian.  I really am.  But he - he found Gilbert, you see - and I can’t... I couldn’t just...”

There was another faint click as Ridge closed his fingers, bringing the spinning cuffs to a halt, and tilted a brow towards Rythian’s outstretched arm.

_ I could just shoot him.  Right here. One less rat in the sewer of this town.   _ The thought was a leaden weight in his mind, even as he saw the dark bulk of Tee sliding into view, reaching towards him.   _ What do I really have to lose? _ Ridge’s eyes were two dark holes, points of void in the weak light - and Rythian relaxed his hand, unresisting as the silent man plucked the revolver free and tossed it aside, where it rattled away into the shadows.

_ I doubt it’d work, anyway _ .

“Alright,” he muttered, through teeth clenched so hard he could feel the creak of his own jaw. “Fair enough.  Should’ve known better by now.” He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but bile had its acid grasp curled around his throat, and he heard Zoey take a sharp breath behind him.  The Dogfather gave a small nod towards her.

“He’ll be waiting for you now.  Don’t come back.”

It would have been nice if there had been a pause, even, a stuttered word from those blasted ruby lips, but the barrel-pressure drew back instantly and Zoey’s footsteps clicked away, depressingly quickly, and Rythian swallowed hard at the final slam of the door.  Ridge hadn’t moved, still watching him, still grinning, and Rythian had to quash the sudden, insane desire to lunge for him.

“So?” he snapped, a little harsher than he meant to, but that just caused the opposing grin to widen further.

“Don’t take it badly, Rythian.  She almost refused, if that helps.”

“ It doesn’t.  So you - what?” Rythian swept his hand round, suddenly, tracing along the wrecked car. “Engineered all this?  Just to... get me here?   _ Why? _ ”

Ridge shrugged.

“Some of it.” He shifted position slightly and his expression changed, something like slyness running down his features. “I want you to investigate something.  For me.”

The snort escaped before Rythian could stop it, as raw disbelief welled up either side of his thoughts.

“ ...that’s  _ it? _ I have - had - “ he corrected “- an office, y’know.  Opening hours and everything.”

_ And you do this?  _ He added, angrily, to himself.  _ Put together some... some goddamn  _ _** game  ** _ _ with me - with her?  Was anything real, you dog-end bastard, or - ? _

“Enough of it was,” Ridge said, suddenly, and Rythian blinked, abruptly wrong-footed.  The other man tilted his head towards him again, his expression suddenly serious. “I’ll let that slide.  I work... at the edges.  Won’t be elaborating more than that, so don’t ask.  Besides - “ and the grin came back, sudden as a razor-slice “ - life’s so much more interesting with the right motivation, wouldn’t you think?” 

His long fingers dug abruptly into his waistcoat pocket, then he tossed a small shape towards Rythian, who caught it on instinct. It was a small globe, something like a large marble in smooth, blue-green glass, and its patterns shifted faintly against his encasing fingers, as if it were filled with restless fog.  Rythian stared at it, and felt all the old horrors fold into place around him, as the thing gleamed in his hand with familiar, hinted malevolence.  Ridge folded his arms and nodded to it.

“Recognise that?”

_ God. Damn. _

“...yes,” Rythian managed, through dry lips, and he looked up sharply at the Dogfather’s lounging shape.  Was it him, or did the man look somehow... tenser, less casually-idle than before?

_ Worried? _

“ Yes,” he repeated, a little more strongly, as suspicion began to uncurl its fronds through his mind. “It’s happening again?  You think  _ she’s _ back?”

“I’m not... sure,” Ridge replied, and this time his scar-sculpted lips twisted in distaste, as though the words themselves had gone sour.  He straightened up, very suddenly, and Rythian had to press down hard on the urge to make a run for it, as the man’s fathomless stare found his own again.

“ I need to  _ be _ sure.”

_ This is crazy.  I must be crazy. _

“What about your little pet mobsters?” Rythian asked carefully, as he tried not to look at the bullet holes in the backdrop-chasis again. “I’ve got a lotta heat on me right now, thanks to you.”

“ I can pull them back.  A bit, for now.” Ridge shrugged, then grinned again, a little more gleefully than Rythian felt the situation warranted. “Man’s gotta solve some of his own problems, Rythian.  It’s good for the soul.” He stopped, and when he spoke again there was a strange intensity about him, as if everything else – the room, the car, even the sickly lamps – were suddenly a little bit less solid, a little bit less  _ real _ than the styled figure himself. “Will you look into it?”

_ I am definitely crazy. _ Rythian tightened his fingers around the pearl; the calling-card, the one he’d hoped to never see again.  But what other choice did he really have, now he knew?  Which was very likely the idea, all along.  Bastard.

“Alright. But not for _you_ , you understand?”

_ I can't let this lie, can I? Not again. _

Ridge waved a hand as he turned, strolling back towards the open doorway with infuriating calmness.

“Either way works for me. I'd wish you luck, but...” he left it hanging, and the next moment he had vanished, swallowed into the night. Rythian cursed as he ducked down, quickly retrieving his revolver for all the cold comfort that could offer.

The question now was - where in the world did he start with  _ this? _

-

-

(Probably not writing more of this, but honestly, I never really know :P)


End file.
